


Putting the Dog to Sleep

by 221brosiewilde



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Heart Attack, I don't really know how tags work, M/M, Miscommunication, Rated M because sebastian can't keep his hands to himself, Violent Thoughts, retirement fic, violent old men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are not growing old. He won’t admit it.  He absolutely refuses.  And Jim Moriarty is the king of not admitting things unless he absolutely needs to. But the arthritis starts in his hands, and Sebastian can't be around forever...<br/>Mormor retirement fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting the Dog to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this fic thinking that it would only be a 500 word drabble that I kept in my drafts forever, but as you can see, it ended up taking a life of its own, and I'm rather proud of that.  
> I'd like to thank Katie for putting up with my uncertainties and questions, and for being not only an awesome Beta but a big confidence booster when I really needed it. I'd also like to thank my RP partners, Hope and Aulora, for being patient with me when this fic was all I ended up talking about. You guys rock.

They are not growing old.

He won’t admit it.  He absolutely refuses.  And Jim Moriarty is the king of not admitting things unless he absolutely needs to.  He is Irish. He can do this. He will ignore an issue until it’s practically waving its arms right in front of his face and furiously dancing the tarantella.  

But the arthritis starts in his hands.  Sebastian catches it before he does, but then Sebastian had always been the best at that.  The sniper always knew when something wasn’t quite right with Jim.  After all these years, he’d perfected the art of Knowing What Jim Needed Before Jim Did Himself.  It was why he wordlessly handed Jim his tea in the morning, and how he knew just when to shoot the client they were meeting with. It was just habit and instinct after more than thirty years of being together.

But Jim’s still confused when Sebastian pushes the two pain pills next to his cup of tea in the morning. “What’s this?”

Sebastian pauses in taking a sip of his coffee (black, with a disgusting amount of fake sugar that’s sure to send him into a diabetic coma someday), and looks at Jim, trying to pull his best innocent look. It doesn’t quite work with the mix of scars and hard new wrinkles, but Jim gives him an A for effort. He shrugs. “Over the counter arthritis medicine. Your hands hurt.”

“Do not,” Jim grumbles petulantly, and Sebastian shoots him a look. Jim glares at the pills. Given enough time he could have the whole brand recalled. It wouldn’t be too hard. Just a few phone calls, and then Sebastian would have to work to get him the medicine. He’d have to get a prescription, which would mean getting Jim to talk to a doctor which was _definitely_ not going to happen. Ever. Yes…If he could just remember that chap from Worthing’s name. The one with the blackened tooth who owed him a favor…he had connections. He could-

Sebastian cuts off his train of thought with a press of his lips to Jim’s mouth as he walks past to go to the bedroom and get ready for the day. “Don’t be stupid. They’ll make you feel better,” he says.

Jim waits for him to leave before flicking the pills into the trashcan.  

_

He continues to not take the pills after that. He continues to pretend that they’re still in their mid thirties and that nothing can touch them. He continues causing as much havoc as humanly possible, and Sebastian continues pulling the trigger when Jim says so. Naturally, that doesn't work.

Sebastian collapses in the middle of the living room a few weeks later. And something previously buried, but terrifying and scared and huge rears its ugly head deep in Jim’s chest.

The doctors call it _myocardial infarction_ , or in simpler terms, a heart attack.  Years of smoking, drinking, and too much takeout apparently weren't so good for someone who was nearing sixty five. Even though Sebastian still exercised regularly, his blood pressure was through the roof, and if it didn't go down soon enough, or if his heart didn't heal the way it was supposed to, he'd have to go in for open heart surgery.

But they cut Sebastian open anyway, just in case.

Which meant, according to the doctor and his little chart of endless information that he carried fucking _everywhere_ , more sleep, better diet, and no more stress.

Jim had tortured plenty of people in his life, but he still didn't think he'd seen someone look as broken as Sebastian had when they told him he'd have to quit smoking. And Jim didn't think he'd ever had as much sympathy for someone before in his life.

Smoking was a part of Sebastian.  When they'd met, he'd had a cigarette between his lips.  The first time they'd fucked, the sniper had grinned afterwards, and lit a cigarette.  When he'd admitted to Jim that yeah fine, he loved him ("You fucker.”), it was on the balcony of their flat, and the words had been framed in cigarette smoke. Jim had uncurled from his place in the doorway, wrapped his arms around his sniper from behind and breathed in the smell, feeling fierce and dangerous and completely undeserving of it. Jim didn’t know if he could live in a world where Sebastian's clothes didn’t smell like tobacco. It was an integral part of who he was.

But he catches the look in Sebastian’s eyes, too many years of knowing each other and Jim can recognize the set of stubborn determination on his sniper’s face, translating it clearly.

“If I catch you smoking again, I’ll have every cigarette distributor within a fifty mile radius of London burned to the ground,” he growls, typing away on his phone to reschedule a meeting (unfortunately it seemed heart attacks didn’t really care how many things you had planned for the day - they happened on their own time). He doesn’t have to look up to picture the look on Sebastian’s face though, pinched and scowling, mouth opening just in time to let out a biting remark about Jim’s receding hairline. He’s expecting it to be like it always is when he threatens Sebastian, but there’s only silence.

Jim looks up from his phone, unnerved by the lack of response, and instead of getting what he’s always gotten, he’s met with Sebastian staring resolutely at the low thread count hospital sheets, jaw clenched and gaze resentful, before he turns on his side, his back to Jim.

The ugly thing in Jim’s chest wilts and whimpers like a kicked animal, so he goes, leaving the room quietly and without a goodbye.

The morning after Sebastian gets back from the hospital (because Jim had better things to do than sleep on an uncomfortable cot in a hospital room, especially if he wasn’t wanted in the first place, so he’d gone home while his sniper recovered), Sebastian throws out his cigarettes, and Jim takes his arthritis pills. Tit for tat.

_

Sebastian tosses the newspaper onto the keyboard of Jim's laptop as he walks into the room, effectively disrupting Jim's flow of concentration. It’s been nearly a month since the heart attack and the hospital and he still can’t shake the look on Sebastian’s face, the way it had made him feel guilty, though he couldn’t suss out what it was he’d done wrong.  He wrinkles his nose, and looks up at the sniper. "What's this?"

"Page twelve," Sebastian says, his tone nonchalant, but Jim's lived with him long enough to be able to detect the undercurrent of importance lying in his words. "Thought you might enjoy it."

Jim sighs, and casts a longing look at his laptop before closing the lid and opening the paper to the page. The headline doesn’t jump out at him immediately since it’s a small piece, and he has to spare a moment to inwardly grouse about Sebastian’s good eyes and his own failing ones.

"Genius Detective and Blogging Sidekick Head to Sussex for Retirement," he reads aloud. He looks at Sebastian who's pretending to busy himself with making tea. "Any reason you thought this would be interesting to me?"

"Just caught my eye when I was on my way home," Sebastian shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter as he takes a sip from his mug. He scratches at an itch on his arm, and the movement makes him twinge, reminding Jim of the stent nestled close to his heart, opening the artery to let blood flow in more easily. He never thought he could be so jealous of a piece of plastic before, but here he was, wishing it was him who could reach in and make sure oxygen and the right cells got to Sebastian’s heart in time for the next breath. But he’d have wired it like a bomb, set it to go off whenever he felt like pressing the detonator, because that’s what happens when you give your heart to Jim Moriarty.

He still hasn’t seen the scar that he knows is there. Sebastian had been strangely closed off about letting himself be seen in any state of undress since the doctors had gone in and fixed him, which was unusual for the sniper considering how many times they’d seen each other bare over the years, and his usual army level of modesty. Plus, Sebastian was usually proud of his scars, and Jim liked to trace them with his fingers and teeth and tongue just to watch him shiver and gasp.

But for some reason things were different now, and Jim was too busy to care about Sebastian’s ridiculous insecurities. He’d get over it.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts. Right. The article.

"And it caught your eye because...?"

Sebastian sighs, looking somewhat disappointed. "No reason. Tea?"

Jim studies him shrewdly for a moment, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch before nodding, and tossing the paper to the side. He had a new embezzlement idea that he had to perfect, and then sell to the highest bidder, and he wanted to discuss a client who'd contacted them a while back about a dog that was terrorizing his family. Could be interesting, and they needed a vacation anyway. Talks of Sherlock Holmes could wait for now, and so could whatever it was Sebastian was trying to hint at.

-

"Jim, come on.”

"No."

"You’re being ridiculous."

"I am not."

"It’s been two months."

"Not enough time."

"The doctor said six weeks."

"Yeah, and we’re only just past that."

"Jim-"

"You’re still _healing_ ," Jim says, the word coming out with more bitterness than he intended as he presses a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, trying to get him to move away. Of course it doesn’t work. Even though he’s older now, Sebastian’s still a wall of muscle. Granted, he’s not as strong as he was, but he’s still heavier than Jim which means that shoving him isn’t going to work very well.

But the thought of his own personal wall of muscle crumbling with age makes Jim’s breath catch painfully, and he stills, not shoving as hard as he usually would.

Seb huffs out a frustrated breath, the hot air of it ghosting over where he’d been brushing his lips against the pulse fluttering in Jim’s jugular in his attempts to get him interested. “We don’t have to do anything other than touching," he murmurs, sliding his hand down Jim’s chest, hooking his fingers in the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and letting the elastic snap against the thin skin around Jim’s hips, eliciting a gasp from him. Sebastian smirks, grazing his teeth over Jim’s earlobe. “Please?"

"The doctor said no strenuous activity," Jim protests, even though he can feel Sebastian’s hand already making its way into his pants, those calloused fingers brushing over his hot skin in a way that’s so familiar he aches with wanting it to go on.

But the image of Sebastian crumbling before him is still fresh in his mind, and he’s desperate to not let that happen again. Ever.

"Handjobs aren’t strenuous," Sebastian insists, rolling his hips against Jim’s thigh, and smirking triumphantly when he feels Jim’s cock twitch, interested, against his palm. _Fucking traitorous anatomy…_ “Just let me," he breathes, kissing along Jim’s jaw. “You don’t even have to do anything back. I just want-" Jim scowls, taking a deep breath to summon all of his self control, effectively cutting Sebastian off as he reaches for his hand, pulling it away. He turns on his side, tugging the covers up over himself and staring at the wall.

"I’m just not in the mood," he says sharply, even though it’s so far from the truth Seb has to know he’s lying, no matter how good of an actor he is. If anyone could see through his bullshit it was Seb. It was always Seb. It’s why he can’t do this right now. At least six weeks of no activity that could get Sebastian’s breathing uneven or too heavy. It was what the doctor had said, and though Jim had always thought doctors were idiots, he was willing to listen to anyone in this case.

He half expects Sebastian to wrap an arm around him and kiss him, to tell him that’s he’s being stupid and to stop lying. He expects him to force him to turn around and to touch him until he’s breathless, and his lips are bruised, until they’re both spent, like he has in the past. He wants him to.

But he doesn’t get that.

"I miss you," are the murmured words he gets instead, and The Ugly Thing in His Chest (it’s developed so much that it deserves capitals now, huge, blinking in neon capital letters in his head) wants to tear itself apart. He stares at the wall, jaw clenched.

He doesn’t like sentiment. He doesn’t like words when it comes to saying how he feels because they’re inadequate and usually come out wrong. Bombs are better. Sending someone to India for a job just because he knows they’ll like it is better. Bruises and scars and gags and handcuffs and blood and muscles that ache for days are better than any words he could string together for Sebastian.

It’s why Jim had nearly killed him when he’d said, “I love you" for the first, and last time so many years ago. He’d screamed and cursed and nearly torn him apart that night, seeing how hard he could push, seeing how deeply he could bury himself, how far he could claw his way inside of Sebastian’s heart and mind and body until he’d said enough, that it was a mistake, that he’d take it back. He could have put a stop to it at any time, but instead he’d let Jim hurt him until he’d passed out, from either pain or blood loss Jim still wasn’t sure. But at the end of it, when Sebastian had been safe in unconsciousness, Jim had taken care of him. He’d ripped him apart, and then put him back together. Destroyer and creator.

And that was how he’d taught Sebastian that they could do things without having to say the words.

But maybe now he could, just for Sebastian’s sake. Just this once. He could show him as well as tell him. He could spill everything that he’d been thinking; that he was scared that they were getting older because it meant that one of them would have to be alone eventually, that he didn’t want to stop doing his job because he loved it and felt useless without it, that he did miss Sebastian, more than anything, and he wanted to ask why he’d been shut out so quickly at the hospital because that had never happened before and it _hurt_ , and Jim Moriarty always made sure the things that hurt him died a swift death so they couldn’t do it again, but this was _Sebastian_ , and killing Sebastian meant more hurt and…and…

He turns over, mouth open to start speaking, but Sebastian’s already asleep.

 

-

They’re in a sprawling manor in North Yorkshire, staying for the weekend so Sebastian can shoot a dog that may or may not exist, for a client who’s more drug addict than insane, when the storm hits. The sky goes pitch black and the power goes out, leaving them with only candles and flashlights as the thunder rattles the windows, and the damp seeps in through the stone walls.

“Well this is productive,” Jim grouses from the chair in front of the fire Sebastian had managed to light, scrolling through weather reports on his phone. “The storm’s not supposed to pass until tomorrow night, and I’m fairly certain our host is in a heroin induced coma in the other room.” He tosses his phone on an end table and tips his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes. This whole job was fucked. There probably wasn’t even a giant dog to begin with, and the pay they were being offered to come all the way out here (one million for every dog hide) was definitely not worth it.

But he’d figured that Sebastian would like hunting down a big animal in rolling fog. And it would get them out of London for a while, which Jim wasn’t really too keen on, but Sebastian had been looking like a wild thing in a cage ever since he’d come home from the hospital. He needed to go out and breathe.

And with how tense things had been between them lately, he figured he could do this one thing for Sebastian while turning a profit at the same time.

And if there was anything Jim Moriarty was good at, it was killing two birds with one stone.

Or...killing anything with one stone, really.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Mm, yeah,” Seb grunts, making it abundantly clear that no, he wasn’t listening. “Productive. Storm. Coma. Got it.”

He slides his gaze over to Sebastian who was looking out the window with a disappointed frown on his face, chewing on the inside of his cheek; a telltale sign that he was thinking about something. Jim hated that look, it always signified that Sebastian was deep in his head, which meant that he wasn’t thinking about Jim, which was a complete travesty. He stares for a moment longer before deciding to get up and do something, because sitting here for the rest of the night with a sulking sniper was definitely not on his List of Fun Things.

He heaves himself out of the chair, and crosses the room to wrap his arms around Sebastian’s waist, pressing the cold of his nose against the back of his neck just to feel him tense and try to jerk away. He’s not disappointed, and he’s sure the sniper can feel his grin against his back.

“Can you really think of nothing better to do than crowd my personal space?” Seb asks sourly, still too tense for Jim’s liking, but he knows that Seb will relax after a minute. He always does.

“No,” he purrs, nuzzling his face against the soft fabric of Sebastian’s shirt, breathing him in. The tobacco smell was gone now, but it didn’t mean that Sebastian smelled any less comforting, any less like home. He still used the same cheap aftershave and plain soap that he had when they’d first met, and Jim still liked it, though he’d never admit it. He snakes his hand underneath Sebastian’s shirt, sliding his palm over his stomach before drifting lower.

“Well can you try?”

Jim frowns, stilling the movement of his hand.”Can I try what?”

“Thinking of something that doesn’t involve me,” Seb answers tersely, reaching down and prying Jim’s hands off of him and walking away, throwing a gruff, “I’m going to bed,” over his shoulder. Jim stares out the window, confused, because since when did Sebastian refuse a sexual advance of any kind? Ever? Especially from him? Especially when he’d been so eager the week before? He taps his fingers on the glass, watching drops of rain race each other for a moment before turning around and following Sebastian up the stairs, angry.

Sebastian had no right to be mad at him. He’d taken on this client for Sebastian. He’d let him have his space after the surgery and everything, and he’d taken his medication for his arthritis every morning when Seb put them by his tea. But now it was nearly three months later, and he was still acting like something was wrong when there was no reason for it at all.

“Like hell you are,” Jim snarls once he gets into the room, and Seb, whose bare back is turned to Jim, stiffens. There’s a tense silence, and Jim, his breathing heavy from stomping up the stairs and being so angry, feels The Ugliness in His Chest rear its head again, and roar. He strides over to Sebastian in a few steps, grabs his shoulder, and forcibly turns him around, determined to see what Sebastian was hiding from him, _him_ of all people, and...oh.

He looks.

He sees.

The scars are large, two horizontal lines resting just below Sebastian’s heart, pink and raised. He can still tell where the stitches had been, and briefly wonders where he’d been when Sebastian had them taken out, and why he hadn’t been told. He reaches a hand out to touch but Sebastian catches his wrist, not holding him back, just guiding, making sure he won’t press too hard, because Jim always tests how hard he can press before something gives. But he wouldn’t do that now, not to Sebastian.

He brushes his fingers over the scars lightly, feeling the slight difference between scar tissue and unmarked skin, a shudder rippling through him. Why hadn’t he been allowed to do this sooner? Sebastian had always been his, and now there’d been a change. Something had happened in the hospital. It must have been then. It was why he’d been pulling away, but what-

“You didn’t stay,” Sebastian murmurs, gazing at a point on the wall above Jim’s head, and Jim looks up at him, not believing for a moment that they’re actually on the same page thought wise, but not sure how they _couldn’t_ be. Of course they were. “I woke up and they’d told me that you’d gone. And you didn’t come back. Then last week you didn’t want...So I just figured...” He trails off, and clears his throat, one shoulder rising and falling in a minute shrug.

Jim finishes for him. “That I didn’t want you anymore.”

Seb’s hard silence speaks for itself, and Jim wishes that the Ugly Thing in His Chest would stop twisting his insides and hurting so much.

“I know you don’t like that we’re getting older, and I can understand that you don’t like hospitals, and everything, but jesus Jim...if you don’t want me you can just fucking say. I’m not made of glass. But I don’t know how long I can do this anymore. Running around and shooting things, I mean. And if you need someone else...it’s fine. Just get it over with, okay? I’ll leave.”

Jim has to stop himself from physically recoiling from those words, because... _no_. No. That had never been the case. He’d just been busy, and Sebastian had to heal, and he had plans for London now that Sherlock Holmes was out of the picture. He couldn’t just leave, not when he practically had free reign of everything. He was going to set the city on fire and watch it burn with Sebastian by his side. There were never any plans to stop, or to replace him. That would be insane even for him. It would be like giving up a half of himself if he let Sebastian leave now after more than thirty years of being together, working and...otherwise.

And the worst part is, though he’s doing a good job of masking it, that he can hear the hurt in Sebastian’s voice, and he knows he’s the one who put it there. And that fucking Sebastian “Martyr” Moran is telling him that it’s fine if he doesn’t want him anymore when it most certainly is not. It’s the least fine thing he’s ever heard in his life.

It’s a choice between giving up work, or giving up Sebastian, and the decision is a surprisingly easy one to make.

He looks at Seb, holding his gaze for a long moment before reaching up to grip his jaw and pulling him down for a rough kiss. It feels like relief, and it’s good, even though it takes a harsh bite to his bottom lip for Seb to respond finally, and Jim doesn’t want to stop even when he does pull away to speak. He looks at Sebastian, liking the flush on his cheeks, and the way his eyes have gone dark, his pupils blown like they always are when Jim kisses him like that.

“You are a complete moron,” he hisses, pushing Sebastian back onto the bed so he can straddle his hips and run his fingers over the two new scars, press his face against the sniper’s broad chest to hear his heartbeat, strong and healthy beneath the cage of his ribs.“The biggest fucking idiot I know, Moran.”

“Well to be fair, I almost died and you didn’t seem to give a shit.”

Jim smacks Sebastian’s arm, and looks up at him, his gaze clear and open and undeniably fond. Sebastian knows that look, has seen it a thousand times. It was the look that he liked to think meant, “I love you,” even though Jim would never say it, had never said it in all the time they’d been together. And that was okay.

“We’re old,” Jim whispers, admitting defeat, and Sebastian cracks a smile, nodding, already leaning up for another kiss. “Let’s set a different city on fire.”

-

But setting it on fire doesn’t exactly work out, though the sun in the South Pacific feels hot enough that Jim thinks he’d like to figure out a way to reign in that heat for himself.

They come home a few days later with three new wolf pelts, and more money in their pockets than they’d originally planned on thanks to Jim planting more than one canine on the premises, and feeling better than they had in three months. The next week, Sebastian had tossed Jim the classified section of the newspaper whose page displayed an island that had recently gone up for sale. The week after that, they were packed on a private jet ready to go.

Jim scowls to himself, hell bent on pretending that he doesn’t like the sun, or the waves, or the way the sand gets into everything, or the tan that Sebastian’s gotten since coming here, and highlights and deletes a sentence that he’s just written. He’s working on his laptop, figuring that he might as well finish the book he’d started writing in university, now that he wasn’t hell bent on becoming the most powerful criminal London’s ever seen, and actually has time on his hands. And it wasn’t like there was anything better to do, though, he had to admit, he sort of liked that.

The sliding glass door to their deck opens and Sebastian steps out, putting a drink on the arm of Jim’s chair before settling onto his own next to him. He peers over, raising an eyebrow. “Almost done?”

Jim nods, scrolling through all four hundred and some pages as quickly as he can just to admire the fact that he’d written all of it. “Just about,” he says carefully, wrapping a hand around his glass and taking a sip of his drink. “Just have to send it to the editor, and then have it published.”

“You know it’s not that easy, right?”

“Not that easy for you, maybe. It’s perfect the way it is, and the publisher owes me a favor,” Jim says, stretching and sending Sebastian a smirk. Seb huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

“It’s good to know you’ve only gotten more egotistical with age,” he says dryly, reaching over to toss Jim the sunscreen before putting his sunglasses over his eyes and reclining on his deck chair. Jim shoots him a glare, but makes no move to put on the sunscreen. He’d be going inside in a bit anyway. The piranha needed feeding. But right now he was happy to lie out with Sebastian. He closes the laptop, and sets it out of the sun, settling back and closing his eyes. He’d never admit it, but owning a personal island was one of the best ideas he’d ever had. Sherlock Holmes could retire to dusty old Sussex and keep bees with his pudgy blogger. He had a sunny island off the coast of Bora Bora, a thriving school of piranha, and a fit, albeit a bit frayed around the edges, sniper to keep him company.

It was more than he could have hoped for.

He feels something nudge at his arm, and startles before realizing it’s just Sebastian’s hand reaching for his own.

“Really?” he asks, tilting his head so Sebastian can see the look he’s giving him over the top of his sunglasses. The sniper refuses to look at him and instead just laces their fingers together. “Hand holding, Sebastian? Are you going soft in your old age?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Seb murmurs, keeping his eyes closed beneath his glasses, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Jim sighs, thinking about how he’d have never allowed this four months ago, and wondering what changed before realizing that he didn’t really care. He could let Sebastian hold his hand. His skin was cool from holding his drink and Jim liked brushing his thumb over the callous on his trigger finger. He was Jim Moriarty. He didn’t need an excuse for anything.

There’s a moment of companionable silence, a few minutes at the most, and then Sebastian takes his hand away, like it was never there to begin with. Jim sighs quietly with relief, happy to know that Sebastian still knew how much of something he could handle and for how long, that he was able to take just what he needed from Jim, and no more, not any more than he could stand to give.

“What are you going to call it?”

Sebastian’s words move Jim out of his thoughts and he frowns, not sure what he was talking about.

“The book, I mean.”

“Oh,” Jim blinks, looking up at the sky, a cloudless blue, not like the nighttime and littered with stars the way he was more familiar with. “Dynamics of an Asteroid. Good, right?”

“I guess if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Well it’s a lot better than _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ and _Three Months in the Jungle_.”

“Just don’t get jealous if your book doesn’t become a bestseller.”

“My book is actually about facts,” Jim grouses, unamused. “Not about killing tigers and fucking whores.”

“Well, we’ll see what the people have to say about it, won’t we?”

Jim growls, and turns to spit something nasty back at Sebastian, but catches the teasing look in his eye and stops. Oh. “Yes,” he says, calmly, “I suppose we will.”

“We will,” Sebastian nods, trailing his fingers up Jim’s arm absentmindedly with a maddeningly light touch, and Jim tries not to lean into it. He stops himself from getting up to straddle Sebastian’s lap to kiss him breathless, deciding that he’d get his revenge tonight when it was dark and quiet except for the sound of their heavy breathing and the waves hitting the shore outside. Because that’s what this is. It’s the best part, really. Sebastian is his only distraction now, among a few other things. And London will be doing a very good job of setting itself on fire all by itself now that Mycroft Holmes is only a few short years away from retirement. Jim smiles with his eyes closed against the sun, the light turning the inside of his eyelids pink.

“So how’s it end?” A quiet inquiry from Sebastian. It’s an innocent enough question, but Jim’s smile grows. He’s not sure if Sebastian means the book, or the two of them, or what they have here, or London, or Sherlock Holmes, or anything, really. He doesn’t even have to think of an answer though, because everything can only end in one way when Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran are involved, it’s the only way things will ever end.

“With a bang.”


End file.
